I am a Defiant Stuffed Olive
by Vision in Blue
Summary: Hawkeye forces Georgia to write a poem about a traumatic event. Well, going to a costume party as a stuffed olive is pretty traumatic!


I… am a Defiant Stuffed Olive

By Georgia Nicolson

**A/N: Dedicated to Breanna & Alison… who's helped me loads with my Forensics piece and my Defiant Stuffed Oliveness. Coincidentally, my piece is the base for my little story thing. **

_Disclaimer: I only borrow Georgia for when I write and perform my prose (possibly Humorous Interpretation?) piece. I'll return her, I promise!_

**Sunday, September 25**

**My room**

**Raining Anguses and Fat Dogs**

**11:00**

I can't believe Hawkeye. She's gone batty loads before, but this tops them all.

She pulled me into her cramped office on Friday and said to me, "Georgia, I understand that acting out is your way of receiving attention. You have a load of angst, as most teenagers do, and you choose to engage in silly activities to cope. But I know how to fix your problem."

"Wait, I have a problem?" I asked innocently.

"Yes, you do. You need to stop this foolishness and grow up. I think poetry should do you well."

"Poetry?"

"Yes, poetry. Let your inner self speak through the words and let those words proclaim themselves on paper!" She looked genuinely pleased with herself, as if her ads on the dating website have finally gotten a hit. Poetry? I was utter crap at poetry! During all the poetry units I passed by writing a poem about my cat Angus: There once was a cat, and he was fat. See! That's all I could write!

"You don't understand; I can't write poetry."

"Yes, you can. I want you to hand me in a poem based on a traumatic or embarrassing experience you have had on Monday morning."

"Could I at lea-?"

"No haikus, and no two line poems. I think you're much more capable of excellence than that, you may go now."

"But?"

"Go on! And if this isn't acceptable, I will make you write another poem."

'_I'm much more capable of excellence than a haiku?'_ Who spiked her morning tea? I soon realized that she had taken a workshop over the summer that stressed poetry as an important outlet in "expressing thy inner self" or something. The big flyer still on her desk was a dead giveaway.

As I left, I was in too much of a moody mood that I didn't notice that Jackie Bummer had her leg out, so I tripped over it and collided with P. Green. She blinked at me through her goldfish bowl glasses and I was in too bad of a mood to even try to get away while she talked to me.

I'm still in that mood; maybe I should write my poem on that.

**12 PM**

Why the hell should I even admit my most personal trauma to her through poetry? I mean, I'd get expelled if I wrote that the most traumatic experience of my life was accidentally seeing her bum at the town pool in a thong bikini.

**12:01 PM**

Bad mental picture, bad mental picture. I need a new topic.

**12:30 PM**

Could I write about Uncle Eddie and the time I rode in the sidecar of his motorbike? Of course, this happened down in Loch Lomond, where no one and I mean _no one_ ever goes. Or at least anyone who is toilet trained, mentally sane, and has a bra size in smaller than her IQ.

I remember it like it was yesterday… the wind in my hair (or whatever stuck out of the helmet), the way the bolts kept coming undone, the bugs that took a suicidal leap into my face, the way I thought I was going to die…

Traumatic, but what am I going to write about that?

"_Uncle Eddie,_

_I wasn't ready._

_The sidecar wasn't steady!!_

_I accidentally tasted a fly,_

_I thought I was going to die._

_When I got home? Boy did I cry!"_

If it isn't good enough, Hawkeye will make me write another. Sacre bleu.

**2:45 PM**

I have an idea! Must stop writing in my diary now to write my soon to be famous poem!

**Monday, September 24**

**Hawkeye's office**

**8 AM**

"Well, here it is!" I announced proudly slapping the paper into Hawkeye's talons, erm, hands.

"'I… am a defiant stuffed olive'?" Hawkeye raised a beady eye from beneath the lens of her glasses.

"Yes. And just to prove how serious I am, I will recite the poem. From memory." I gave my biggest smile, attempting to flash all my white teeth without looking like a croccidile.

"_I… am a Defiant Stuffed Olive! Written by Georgia Nicolson._

_I… am a Defiant Stuffed Olive,_

_Who dared to think beyond the catsuit box_

_My costume fit and I didn't have to lie_

_About my size._

_I… am a Defiant Stuffed Olive,_

_Whose creativity couldn't even get out the door_

_Without being caught on the stairs_

_Or being attacked by a cat._

_I… am a Defiant Stuffed Olive_

_Who was the subject of mockery_

_With my green body and red head._

_But I persevered._

_I… am a Defiant Stuffed Olive_

_Who danced by myself like nobody was watching!_

_Actually, literally no one was watching._

_Not one bloody person._

_I… am a Defiant Stuffed Olive_

_Who would've kept dancing!_

_But things kept falling, the host asked if I'd sit down_

_And I nearly fell over myself._

_I… am a Defiant Stuffed Olive _

_Who wasn't surrounded by boys that night_

_And waited outside for an hour_

_For her dad to pick her up."_

"That was… interesting. How were you comparing yourself to an olive?"

"Oh no, I really _was_ the olive!"

"So you lost your identity and _became_ the olive?"

"No, that was my costume for a party. Quite literally, in fact. I made the costume out of chicken wire and bits of green crepe paper- the olive bit, and used crazy color to dye my head, neck, and face red- a pimento."

"So this was written about a party?"

"Yes, I believe we've gotten to this point already."

"And this was traumatic?"

"You've gone out into a public pool with a thong bikini, I think we both know what it's like to not be dressed right."

.

**3 PM**

An ode... to detention:

Detention, detention,

I can't pay attention

to anything that comes out of my mouth.

It just goes to show you,

that the day I will rue,

when you go into a public with a thong,

because that's just wrong.

And horribly traumatic.

At least Hawkeye swore off her poetry fad, so no other student has to experience the horror. Oh yes, I'm a martyr for current and future students everywhere. Three cheers for Georgia!

**4 PM**

I shall never write poetry again. Unless it's a love poem, which are totally different.

**a/n: Short, sweet, and to the point. Reviews are lovely please! Whee night before a Forensics tournament. Uploading a day or two before a tournament was good luck before, so fingers crossed! Love, Allison *e-hug***

**P.S. My new avvy was made by Adam, and his awesomeness factor has surpassed John Green. And yeah, I slipped on the ice today in front of about… 50 people, give a lot take a little. Oh well. ^__^**


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